Words Of Love
by ingrid-matthews
Summary: A fluffy piece in which Holmes shows Watson he loves him, but not with words. Slash or bromance, your pick.


Title: Words of Love

Fandom Sherlock Holmes 2009

Rating: PG

Pairing: Holmes/Watson

Genre: Fluffy Mcfluffins

Prompt: "A little fluff piece about the ways holmes tells watson that he loves him, be it with words or actions."

0o0o

The bed is short-sheeted, but made. There is a single large - and tottering - pile of documents on the desk instead of twenty small ones. Last week's "experiment" has been tossed into a box and placed beneath the table, out of danger's way.

Gladstone is alive.

There's a proud sparkle in Holmes' eye when Watson comes in from a long day out on calls. He takes Watson's jacket and pours him tea in a cup that's been rinsed, if not exactly washed. The scones are fresh, the room smells aired.

Watson glances around warily. "Busy day?"

"I've cleaned." Holmes smiles at him. "What do you think?"

A slight gust of wind from an open window topples the paper pile. Watson smiles back as a few months worth of correspondence slides to the floor.

Watson raises his cup of tea in salute. "It looks wonderful."

0o0o

Watson stares at the crime scene, his mouth twisting as he concentrates. "But if there are two distinct patterns of blood ..."

Holmes says nothing, choosing to let Watson finish.

The light of realization shines in Watson's face. "That means there were two victims instead of one! My god, Holmes ..."

"Brilliant, dear Watson," Holmes says, clapping him on the back. "Wonderful observation. I think you've cracked this case."

Watson flushes with happiness and sees that happiness reflected back at him in Holmes' bright eyes.

0o0o

His leg is throbbing, badly, but Watson refuses to give in to the pain. He continues to walk, leaning on his cane, his mouth set in a tight line.

Baker Street is still at least another half-league away when Holmes sighs. "I'm ridiculously tired. How about you?"

"I'm fine," Watson grinds out, with as large a false grin as he can muster. He prays his leg won't simply fail beneath him. The humiliation would be too much to bear.

"I'm not fine," Holmes says, even though he looks as fit as he ever does. "I want a carriage." He steps out into the road and hails one. He steps inside first and pulls up Watson after him. They slump in their seats, side by side, Watson sighing with silent relief.

Holmes leans back against the leather. "I appreciate your consideration, Watson. I simply couldn't go another step."

It's a lie, a rather bold-faced one and Watson is grateful in ways that can't quite be described.

He squeezes Holmes hand. "I'm always happy to help."

0o0o

The thug is holding a knife to Watson's throat. He swallows and can feel the razor's edge press against a pounding artery. His captor is shaking with adrenaline, alcohol and rage -- he senses the huge body trembling behind his back.

Watson's very sure he's going to die.

Holmes stares at the villain, his eyes as cold as a night in the far northern wilderness. "Let him go."

The knife presses harder against Watson's skin, making him stiffen with fear. "What if I don't? Huh? What then?"

Holmes regards him calmly. His voice is steady. "I'll hunt you. I'll find you. Then I'll kill you." He pauses. "In the most interesting way I can think of."

Watson doesn't know what the blackguard sees in Holmes eyes or hears in his words, but suddenly the knife is dropped and Watson finds himself swaying on his feet, alone. Holmes catches him by the arm and they both stand there, breathing hard, Holmes looking as relieved as Watson feels even though his life was never in danger.

"Technically," Holmes whispers, as if reading his mind. "Only technically, my dearest John."

0o0o

Their fight is over something ridiculous, Watson remembers that much.

They don't speak for days and when they start again, it's in single syllables. Holmes takes to dipping into his needle case, at least until Watson hides it and they start fighting again, this time violently.

Crockery is smashed. Papers are thrown to the floor. Books are ripped apart and Holmes yells at Watson: _"Vous êtes une pomme de terre avec le visage d'un cochon d'inde!_" and Watson punches him in the nose because he speaks French perfectly well, thank you very much.

Holmes hits him back and they both end up sitting on the floor, holding their bloody noses like errant schoolboys.

Watson isn't sure who starts laughing first. Before he realizes what's happening they're both howling like madmen, shoulder to shoulder, eyes wet with mirth. "A potato that looks like a guinea pig?" Watson asks, wiping the tears away.

"It's the worst thing I could think of," Holmes insists. "Although I find guinea pigs insufferably sweet." He wipes away some blood before offering his handkerchief to Watson. "I like potatoes as well."

"I love you too," Watson replies, accepting the cloth. "Even if _vous avez le cervau d'un sandwich au fromage_".

Holmes' mouth drops open and the fight begins again.

0o0o

end

Reviews are appreciated!


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